If feral cats had thumbs, I'm sure
they'd raise them to their noses-
and smile at those of us who think
cats' lives are beds of roses.

They're up from dusk to dawn each day
to hunt their daily dinner.
No processed food for these smug boys-
organic is a winner.

Organic mice, organic owls,
organic this and that.
Oh what joy it is to be
a prowling feral cat.

They get their meals on the run,
combining work and play.
A friend one minute's food the next-
there's never a dull day.

The stars in their uncounted millions shine;
suns in their brilliance light the Cosmos;
winds of change blow, unrelenting;
and a small, blue planet dies-
suffocated.
Cry, Humanity!
Cry for your unborn children;
cry for the lost glories of a world;
cry for those lives you have ignored-
for those lives misunderstood.
Cry for those god-born creatures
destroyed by greed.
Deplore your love of the material-
heal your spirit and heal the world.

Through purple shadows of a starlit night
I wander-
the empty reaches of the universe
to ponder.
I stand, a stranger, on a darkened shore:
a life behind me and a life before.
Where shall the phantom hand that guides me
lead?
With eyes turned to the distant stars
I gaze in stunned bewilderment.
Along the shore, across the sandy beach-
my soul goes out to seek in haste
a kindred spirit in the starry waste.
Companions in a bygone age,
we meet again as time stands still
and love as only lovers will.

Moon shines upon a darkened earth:
an eye in heaven ne’er saw more than she,
as from her far throne
she casts her beams down:
a silver trail in a pitch-blend sea.

In the dimness, in the darkness
of the woodlands, see them play
where the shadows, ever gath’ring,
weave the magic not of day.
You shall see them softly glimmer,
though your eyes shall seem to say
you’ve seen nought but shimm’ring silence
of vestigiality.

The feral cat has struck again-
Brought fear into the hearts of men.
Not satisfied with fowl or fish,
He’s settled on another dish.

**** knows that he is on a winner
When he gobbles TV dinner.
Chow mein? He likes it to a turn,
And his coffee from the urn.

“Waiter! My soup!” and off I trot
to serve my master on the spot.
“And don’t forget the bread and butter!”
“Up yours, chum!” I’m heard to mutter.

When,
in moonbeams’ thrall,
you’re bidden dance,
remove the veil from your eyes;
walk the dim halls of mystery
with feet
bare of all encumbrance;
enter the sacred grove
stripped of all pretension;
join the dance,
naked,
knowing
that life is light-
everlasting.